This is posted mostly for slyfoot. I was going to post it to him as a comment; but it is really a story that deserves its own entry.

Once upon a time, I had a calico cat named Casey. She was a real homebody, never left the yard. She came to my family as an adult stray in 1988. I was 16 years old.

Casey made a friend in the neighborhood: an orange tomcat. Perhaps I should say that the orange tomcat thought he made a friend of Casey. Casey wasn't very interested in him; but he fought other toms for her affections just as he fought other toms for the affections of all female cats in the neighborhood. Getting Casey spayed didn't help much. The orange cat continued to hang around the house, skulking around in the garage, lying on the porch, etc. He didn't seem to have a home. He was a ratty old cat, skinny and dirty from hunting mice in the nearby field.

I went away to college and eventually transferred to a second college. Casey aged very gracefully--she was with the family until 2003. My parents lived in that same house until 1998.

The orange cat also aged slowly. But his time finally came. Unfortunately, he met his demise in the garage, much to the dismay of my dad.

Dad had gone out to do some work in the garage and noticed that something stank badly. Searching for the source of the odor, he located the cat lying stiff and still under a workbench. He became angry, thinking about the task of moving all the items off the workbench, moving the bench, scooping up the cat, and burying it. He sighed, yelled about "that stupid cat dying in our garage!" Then he set to work.

As he lifted the workbench, the cat ran off.

Dad yelled again. The crazy cat had never been dead. He had been asleep; and he stank because he was an old dirty alley cat!

I suppose the orange cat is dead by now. But perhaps he's still running out from under people's cars and workbenches. He did seem to have a never-ending supply of lives...

Rusty had cancer, and the vet said he had about six months. This boy was 16, and he had already survived a massive infection, getting trapped in a refrigerator, and being hit by a pizza truck and paralyzed. He was like the iron man of pussycats.

After eighteen months, he was still here and perky, and the vet said he might have more time, but be sure of his quality of life.

A couple nights later I thought he was making an "uncomfortable" sound, so I lay down beside him and started petting him and crying.

Another of our cats, an enormous and mellow two-year-old Russian Blue named (never mind why) Rodriguez, AKA Rowdy, came over and started doing the old stomp-and-drool on my midriff. I petted him with one hand, Rusty with the other.

And cried.

And suddenly Rowdy went rigid and fell over, mid-purr.

And I'm here with a hale and hearty Rusty, and a dead Rodriguez. No warning, just -- lights out.

My grown son roared with laughter when he heard this. "Good Lord, he said. "Poor old grim reaper reached for Rusty and missed again!"